When dinner meets a fowl end

By Karyn McGovern

December 21, 2012 - 2:00 AM

Well here we are again, neck-deep in holiday observances. I've been chastised for not making Hanukkah latkes and, having moved into a new house sans fireplace a couple weeks ago, for not having a chimney by which to hang stockings with care. Still, I fa-la-la-la-love everything about this festive season: The twinkle lights, the shopping, the displays of goodwill, the Christmas carols (to a point), the food. Oh, the food.

On the 12th night in our new home, I decided to make a special meal: roast chicken. Roast Chicken is special because it tastes divine, it's reasonably healthy, easy to make and most importantly, everyone will eat it.

The 12 Days of Christmas starts with one's true love giving a partridge in a pear tree; I'd give my little loves a roast chicken, hold the fruit. And the tree.

I cannot say for sure how many chickens I've roasted in my time, but it's a lot. I'm pretty good at it.

The bird went into the oven — the lovely, shiny, clean oven. The children did their homework. I went upstairs to unpack some boxes. And shortly before the bird's thermometer popped, the smoke detector went berserk.

I hadn't noticed the smoke, as I'd been upstairs, but it was thick and horrible. The children were inexplicably sporting their Santa hats and running amok, yelling, "Fire! Fire!" and "Stop, Drop and Roll!", as they sought refuge from the olfactory onslaught and shrill chirping.

I hopped around trying to smack the button on the alarm, which is mounted a couple feet above my head, just out of reach. That's when the carbon monoxide detector (positioned beneath the smoke detector) fell off the wall and hit me on the head. I briefly looked around for Chevy Chase, because it was starting to feel like we were one squirrel away from a National Lampoon movie.

Eventually, I made contact with the button, ending the auditory assault, and it was hard to say which was thicker, the silence or the smoke. I opened the doors, turned on the extractor fan, and when I could properly see again, I peeked into the oven to determine what, exactly, had gone on in there.

Well, let me tell you: I have heard of Chicken Little, chickening out, chicken hawks and even the funky chicken, but I had never heard of an exploding chicken before. Yet, that's precisely what it was.

It was like poultry Armageddon in there. There was a crater in its golden brown skin, which looked like a small explosive device had been placed directly under its surface. The heretofore shiny, blue-grey speckled oven interior was now splattered, coated, dripping and caked with "¦ well, chicken. Chicken juice, skin, meat, the lot. It was like Old MacDonald's nightmare: Chicken here and chicken there, here some chicken, there some chicken, everywhere some chicken, chicken.

I wept.

The next day, armed with fresh resolve, I bought some very deceptively named oven cleaner which implies simple removal of oven messes. Let me say this about that: they lie. It took three days of spraying, setting, mopping and wiping before I gave up and resorted to steel wool and scrubbing.

We cooked on the grill, on the stovetop and in the microwave for a few days after that, because I couldn't bear to sully my pristine-again oven, or worse, to chance another (rather painful) cleaning fiasco.

But time marches on. We're hosting Christmas this year; so I better test it now, before there are witnesses to any further episodes of exploding poultry and my Christmas goose is cooked.